


Mr. Fox's Rabbit

by snowyfoxpaws



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Animals, Bondage, Drugged Sex, Hand Jobs, Knotting, M/M, Oral Fixation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:13:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowyfoxpaws/pseuds/snowyfoxpaws
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred, a bachelor fox, takes in and raises a baby rabbit, because everyone makes mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mr. Fox's Rabbit

_'I'm a fox.'_

It's not a difficult concept. It's merely a fact. It's the truth.

_'I'm a fox.'_

He's well aware of this. His mother is a fox, his father is a fox, and his brother is a fox. Naturally he's one as well.

_'I'm a fox.'_

And yet...

There's a bundle in his arms.

It stirs slightly, now and again, damp and restless from the rain. It's soaked and small and he's not really sure what to do with it. But it's alive and wrapped in a towel and he's taking it back home because that's what you do right? When something needs your help, you help it, right?

Alfred swallows, ear flicking off droplets of rain. He settles for pressing them both flat against his hair despite his own discomfort at doing so. Glancing up, all he sees are clouds. There are no stars now, only muddled grey and black fields looming overhead that groan and lash out. It's worrying.

Is this really the right thing to do? He's not sure.

He's fairly certain it's not.

His den's not too far and he slips in without any trouble, ducking down into the hollowed out space where he lives. It's roomy inside and he turns back to shove some branches into place behind him to block out the wind and the rain. They're old, thick, and bound together with twine, so once he gets them set he feels more at ease. He's safe now— _they're_ safe.

Sucking in a breath, he shifts the bundle in his arms, switching hands, and finds his lamp. He flicks the switch a few times, fingers damp and numb and slipping, but once he gets it the den lights up with an oil flame. He then sets about arranging the hearth.

Soon enough there's a genuine fire going.

He puts the bundle down now, unfurling the cloth around it. The storm chooses that moment to act up and there's a hollow howling noise as wind sweeps rain over the hill. His ears prick as he glances at the roof of his den, as though expecting some kind of awful collapse. None comes.

When he looks down again there are wide green eyes staring up at him.

Alfred freezes.

There's this awkward thump in his chest, his hands twitch, but he takes a breath and physically shakes off any unwanted thoughts. Looking down again, it takes effort, but he's able to convince himself well enough.

Just because it has rabbit ears, it isn't food. Just because it's a rabbit, he doesn't have to eat it. Just this once. Just this one time. It's alright. It doesn't matter how it smells or how his mouth waters.

His instincts settle a little when he reminds himself that he's not even hungry. He ate earlier. He...

He's quite full.

Yes.

His gaze is faraway as he stares down at the baby. He's not sure what rabbits call theirs. He supposes it doesn't matter—to him it's a kit. Yes. Just a kit. Not a snack. No.

It's an orphan.

He pulls his fang over his own lip and feels the burn as it nearly pricks the flesh. It grounds him a little bit. He doesn't like pain—no one does.

“Hey.” He says. He's not sure what he's expecting. It doesn't answer, obviously. It just looks at him. Its eyes are a vivid color, like the rain-wet leaves of the forest. They look like its mother's. “So do you have a name or... something?”

The kit just blinks up at him, opens its mouth and makes a soft, breathy noise. Alfred frowns. That's not an answer, but of course it's not. This one's too young to speak.

“Okay.” He thinks for a moment, looking at it, the warmth of the hearth dancing along his chilled skin. “Sorry, I'm going to have to, um...” He awkwardly lifts the cloth a bit and adjusts the creature's leg. It's male. He's somehow extremely relieved.

He can deal with this. This is fine. It's just a little boy. Those are pretty easy to raise, right? He might not be a fox, but he can't be that different from one... right? And baby foxes grow up quickly and run off and they're not any trouble at all.

The kit's looking at him still. He reaches down to feel his ear, the fur soft but damp between his fingers. “I guess we ought to dry you off so you don't catch a chill or something, huh?” Alfred says. He's not sure why he's talking to him, but it helps somehow. Friend, not food. A living thing. It's beginning to get easier. “If you got sick I'd have no idea what to do. I'm not really familiar with rabbits.” He admits.

Sick rabbits are easy to catch and eat, his mind whispers. That's all he knows.

He shoves the thought away.

Yes, this feels better somehow. He feels more at ease. Grabbing a towel, he removes the damp cloth and rubs the kit dry, making sure to take extra special care of the long, fluffy ears. The kit starts to giggle as he dries his stomach and little feet. Alfred can't help but smile at that.

“You're cute, you know that? I mean, I don't normally, uh... say that about rabbits or bunnies or whatever, but you're alright.” He's suddenly glad the thing's an infant and has no idea what he's saying.

The storm wears on outside, furious. He stares up at the roof of his den and hopes the wind doesn't knock down any trees. Well... any _more_ trees.

He looks down at the kit.

“I suppose I should get you warmed up. Um. This is what my mom always did, so it's not weird, okay? Just in case rabbits are different somehow. I don't know.” Alfred rambles as he wraps the kit in a dry cloth. It might not stay wrapped around him overnight, but at the very least it's something for him to be bundled in. Picking him up, Alfred strips off his own wet clothing and shakes himself dry, tail and hair fluffing. The kit laughs in his hold, reaching out with tiny hands towards his ears.

Alfred smirks at that.

“Oh no. No, no. I know what you babies do—you pull them right off. You're not tricking me.” He tells him as he moves slip underneath the cover of furs he's patched into a blanket. There are a few layers of them—bear, deer, wolf. Whatever he could get his hands on at the time. And beneath him is more fur, sewn together and stuffed with down. It all smells like him. It smells safe. He makes himself comfortable.

The bundle is secured up against his chest. At first the kit snuffles a bit, maybe put out that he's not with his parents. Babies can tell. They always know. But after a minute or two of squirming he settles, tuckered out, and starts to drift off, exhausted. There's no telling how long he was left alone in the woods, crying at unsympathetic trees.

Idly stroking the kit's ear, Alfred relaxes.

This is unconventional and wrong, he's sure. Foxes don't take in little rabbits. They don't dry them off and tuck them in and keep them safe from the world. Foxes eat the bunny parents that were crushed by the tree and then they eat the baby bunnies too. They don't save the baby bunnies out of some kind of strange guilt. They don't.

Alfred marvels silently at himself.

He falls asleep uncertain of what the morning will bring.

 

 

 

“Arthur!” Alfred calls, squinting at the brush and the tall grass, faintly annoyed. “Arthur, don't make me come find you!”

He hears a giggle and his ear flicks in that direction, eyes soon following after.

It isn't difficult to pinpoint his location and soon enough he's creeping forward and pulling back a well-placed branch. The moment his eyes catch sight of Arthur the child lets out an over-excited shriek and launches out of the bushes and into his legs.

Alfred nearly swats himself in the face with the branch when he lets go out of surprise.

“A'fred! A'fred!”

“Yeah, yeah! Uncle Alfred's caught you again, you— little—” He sweeps down and scoops the kit up, “trouble-maker!”

The bunny flails a little, ears hanging and swinging as he squirms in his grasp before little arms are thrown around his neck as the kit snuggles close. Alfred rolls his eyes, but he fluffs his hair and furry ears anyway.

Arthur pulls back to look at him, bright-eyed. “Bug!”

“You found a bug?” Alfred says, smiling a little, interested. “What kind of bug.”

The kit shakes his head.

“Did you let it go?”

The kit shakes his head again.

Alfred frowns.

Arthur releases his hold on his neck in order to put part of a hand in his mouth.

“You _ate_ it?” Alfred asks, brows raised.

Arthur nods.

The hawk told Alfred that rabbits and bunnies only eat plants, so he's fairly certain that for him to eat a bug is bad, but there's no helping it now. He ruffles his hair. “Well you sure showed it, didn't you?”

Arthur preens a little.

 

 

 

It isn't all that long before the forest knows.

His parents died ages ago and his brother lives quite a ways away, so it isn't like he faces much pressure from his family, but the other creatures gossip or snicker when they see him. Some wrongfully assume that this means he's gone soft—squirrels and the like—which is fine by him as that means they're easier to catch and eat. Others quickly learn. They realize that he isn't _their_ friend. Only Arthur's.

The gossip turns to mockery.

But Alfred is a fox and he cares so little for it that to even hear the occasional rumor sets him grinning.

“Oh the birds are the _worst_.” Francis tells him, tail flicking idly as he leans against a stone. “They chatter on and on and on.”

Alfred smiles at that and nods, giving the cat his full attention. “They're harder to catch so they get away with a lot more.”

“Indeed.” Francis bemoans. He's not a wild creature like Alfred is, but he has a way about him that sets him apart from the other domesticated cats and he's given Arthur a look every so often—the kind that says he wants to suffocate him just for being alive and smaller than he is.

He'll never act on that instinct though—oh no, not with Alfred there, watching over the rabbit. Cats may enjoy hunting, but foxes do as well. And he's bigger than the cat. He has no qualms with turning him into a meal.

“What will you do with him once he is older?” Francis asks, deceptively curious.

“I don't know.” Alfred admits.

“Will you eat him?”

“No.”

“Pity.”

“I'd call it a waste.” Alfred says.

“Is it not more of a waste to expend energy on raising him? You could be settling down with a nice female fox. You could have kittens of your own— _real_ ones.”

“Maybe.”

Francis looks at him—really, _really_ peers at him as though trying to read his thoughts—before he backs off. “It is your life, my friend.”

“Indeed it is.” Alfred confirms, flashing him a warning smile.

 

 

 

Arthur's growing quickly.

Of course he's always known that rabbits grow quickly—with the way they breed they practically spring up from the ground. However he's really not prepared for it at all. The small infant that sleeps next to him every night gets larger and larger by the day. At first he was cute, but now he's something else. Alfred isn't sure what to think.

He isn't the same height as Alfred, no. He's smaller, slimmer. His build is almost fragile but his eyes are smart and his attitude is stubborn. He comes up to Alfred's waist but he acts like something in between a child and an adult.

Arthur leaves sometimes. Of course Alfred forces him to help out, making him fetch water or clean up meat or prepare food or gather fruit. But sometimes he just wanders off and it always sets Alfred on edge because no one has ever taught him how to survive as a rabbit. He almost walks with the brazenness of a fox and Alfred's not sure whether that's his fault or simply his faulty nature.

Arthur meets Francis on his own one day. He talks to him, snubs him, and insults him. Francis doesn't eat him, but he relays this back to Alfred with open amusement.

The rabbit is getting himself into trouble.

And yet Alfred can hardly stay mad. He yells at him once for it, cautioning him from thinking like that when he's so _vulnerable_ , but Arthur just cries and that breaks him. He doesn't have a response for that. He backs down.

Things become awkward for a while.

Arthur's growing quickly.

 

 

 

“Are you embarrassed?”

“Am I what?” Alfred asks, looking up from his meal. He's made soup for dinner but Arthur's serving is naturally vegetation. He'd tried meat once and vomited and that had been the end of that.

“Embarrassed.” Arthur repeats over his bowl, bright-eyed and pouting slightly. “Of me.”

Alfred blinks. “No...” He says carefully, brow furrowing. “What makes you think that?” The whole forest knows that the rabbit is untouchable lest they incur his wrath. That's hardly embarrassed. He's not hiding their affiliation.

“I'm prey.” Arthur continues, idly dragging his spoon across his bowl, looking at him carefully.

“You're a rabbit.” Alfred corrects.

“You eat rabbits.” Arthur presses.

“I do.” Alfred concedes.

“So are you embarrassed?” Arthur repeats again, beginning to get irritated. “The other animals laugh at you a lot. The field mice said— they said—...”

Alfred props his chin up on his hand. “What did the field mice say?”

Arthur looks away, guilty. He glances back. “Will you eat them if I tell you?”

Alfred smiles. “Maybe.”

Arthur frowns at that but continues anyway. “They said that you were crazy—that you'd gone nuts or... or that you were just keeping me to fatten me up and eat me.”

“I would never eat you.” Alfred says with complete honesty.

Arthur peers at him, trying to read him. “Really?”

“Really. Have I ever lied to you before?” Alfred says, almost exasperated. The field mice will certainly make an excellent meal.

“Well you _did_ tell me that Francis would try to eat me and he hasn't done that.”

“I said that he _might_ and that still remains true.”

“And the other herbivores aren't so bad. I don't know why you said the deer were stuck up.” Arthur adds.

“Well to me they are.” Alfred shrugs. “I scavenge them; we're not exactly friends.”

Somehow they lapse into silence after that. Arthur eats his food but there's a rigidity to him that betrays his own personal tension. It reminds Alfred of when he's seen rabbits try to outrun him. He's even bouncing his leg a bit, anxious.

It's cute, really.

 

 

 

Arthur grows.

He gets as tall as Alfred's shoulder before he stops, but mentally he changes as well. He goes quiet when it's just the two of them, sometimes for hours at a time, and he stares at the door to the den almost longingly.

He wants freedom.

That's the only thing that Alfred can take from all of this and it makes his heart twist. It hurts. Arthur wants to leave—he wants to separate from him. But Arthur _is_ his. He was spared as a meal; he belongs to Alfred. Arthur owes him his life.

Soon he becomes aware of the extent of it all.

The cold of winter makes it easy to keep him inside. Arthur's not fond of the snow or the ice and he doesn't like the frigid winds. But soon it's spring and that brings this new urge out in him. He's older—old enough to find a mate—and the season is rapidly upon them. He's itching to leave and go outside. His instincts are telling him to go find other rabbits. Alfred can see it in his eyes, in his body. He wants to go.

Alfred should let him.

He should, but he doesn't.

“It's dangerous out there.” Alfred tells him one night. It's a clear night, but he almost wishes it was dark and stormy as to make his tale more effective. They're crowded around the hearth, eating a small meal, and Arthur's looking at him with all the belief of someone who doesn't know any better.

But Alfred's a fox.

“You want to leave this place, don't you?” Alfred asks him.

Arthur looks away, guilty. After a minute or so he finally nods.

“That's your body tricking you. It's trying to draw you out so that things like me will eat you right up. We're hungry after winter, you know. So good bunny mothers tell their children about this test—you can't go outside or you'll die. If you pass it, you become an adult. But not many rabbits pass it and that's why you all have so many children. Because very, _very_ few of you reach adulthood because of this, understand?”

Arthur's wide-eyed, his ears pricked slightly as he attempts to soak in every word. Alfred's given him context for his feelings and now he's aware of how bad they are for him. He looks almost startled and that's adorable. Alfred pats his head and Arthur ducks away annoyed.

“I'm just worried. But I'm a fox and I always get real fat this time of year because of silly, hormonal bunnies.”

“Thank you.” Arthur says, looking up at him, grateful. “I was... I was thinking about sneaking out... I thought...”

“It's alright, you don't have to thank me.” Alfred assures. “Once this season is over you can go out again! And then you'll understand why I made you stay inside. But promise me that you won't sneak out, okay? I don't want to see you get hurt...”

Arthur nods, earnest. “I won't.” He says. “I promise.”

Alfred smiles. “I'm glad.”

 

 

 

Arthur does well to keep his promise.

Every day, almost dutifully, the rabbit goes about his assigned chores. He helps out as much as possible and Alfred figures it's because he needs something to do to keep him occupied. He hardly ever glances at the entrance to the den anymore, let alone with yearning, and when he does look at it it's with a stern sort of reprimanding expression, as though he's chastising nature for trying to coerce him to his death.

Alfred is beyond pleased.

Arthur is his little rabbit— _his_ little rabbit. He helps him clean, helps him cook, and washes with the river water Alfred brings him. He keeps himself tidy and occupies himself with menial tasks. He's obedient and earnest and everything Alfred could hope for. He's perfect.

And then things get complicated.

In retrospect, perhaps he should have expected it, but a rabbit's sexuality is foreign territory for him. He knows that for himself he sometimes has an urge or two, but without a female fox around he feels no real reason to indulge himself. He's met vixens before—they're nice and lovely things. He fancies he wants to mate with one but perhaps not this spring. Maybe next spring, but not this one—not while Arthur's here.

He can't trust other foxes, see.

But none of that's on his mind when he wakes in the middle of the night, groggy and confused. He's a heavy sleeper, so it takes him a few seconds to recognize what woke him. His bed-partner is shuffling slightly, a strange, repetitive motion and it dawns on him suddenly what it might be—what Arthur might be _doing_.

His breath feels short and his heart flutters in his chest.

Alfred's never been one to play coy or shy and now is no exception. He turns around, spooning Arthur's back, and presses a fanged smile against the now-still rabbit's neck.

“Something wrong?” He asks.

The skin beneath his cheek is overly warm. He wonders if Arthur is blushing.

“N- no...” The rabbit tells him.

Alfred sighs, as though disappointed. “You shouldn't lie to me...”

He can feel Arthur swallowing his own saliva before he hesitates, lips parted, struggling for words. “I... I just...”

“You were touching yourself, weren't you?”

Arthur goes silent.

He's mature now. Were he out and about he'd be starting a family. It's only natural that he'd have... urges.

“Your dick was hard, wasn't it? It ached and so you touched it—stroked it. You wanted to coax yourself to orgasm, didn't you? Have you done this before? Masturbated?”

Perhaps it's how blunt he is with the act that Arthur goes both rigid and yet relaxes at the same time. His nervousness has been transferred—it's anticipation now. It's eagerness. Alfred can smell the want of sex on him. He's curious as to what the fox will do now. He's curious as to what he _can_ do.

“Does it hurt?”

Arthur takes a staggered breath. “No it—... it doesn't hurt, it just...”

“I'll take good care of you.” Alfred says, because he will. Suddenly he _wants_ to. It's not a position he had ever expected himself to be in—a fox jerking off a rabbit—but his hand slips down to find the bunny's hard little cock and he feels warmth pool in his chest. He's so firm that he's hot and leaking and it makes the base of Alfred's tail tingle. It's strange. Perhaps he isn't right in the head after all.

Oh well.

He strokes him, slowly at first, and while Arthur's hands may have shyly protested his own at first they hesitate now, twitching, his whole body a live wire of base lightning. He's never had another hand on him before Alfred's and the fox can tell by the way he arches— by the way he doesn't know how to contain the noises that spill from his lips. He's embarrassed but he does nothing to stop him. Alfred's hand has him, caresses him, rubs him, and soon he's ejaculating into it, a creaky whine in his throat as he dampens Alfred's hand with semen.

When the rabbit's orgasm dies down the fox extracts his messy hand and licks it clean. Arthur watches him, eyes dark and half-lidded but attentive. Alfred's tongue collects every, single drop.

When he's done he licks his lips and gives the rabbit a sly smile. “Perhaps I lied when I said that I would never eat you.”

Arthur doesn't even have the energy to be annoyed with him over the play on words—he looks tired and dreamy, likes there's a blanket over his brain. A small hand tugs Alfred's arm and he curls up next to the rabbit at Arthur's command. They fall asleep together, comfortable. The ever present distance between them is gone.

Alfred likes this.

Alfred likes this a lot.

 

 

 

Rabbits are very, very sexual creatures, Alfred soon finds.

As a fox he assumes, at first, that the rutting in bed was a one time thing brought about by not getting any release, but he realizes his error soon enough. Out hunting, Francis sees him and makes a little jab. It's nothing serious and the cat doesn't know what's really going on, but it's a comment as simple as:

“So how is your horny little bunny?”

Alfred laughs, of course. He makes an offhand comment about Francis' barbed penis that causes the cat scowl and continues on his way, but when he gets back home it suddenly occurs to him that there's more to it than that.

It wasn't just a taunt; it's the truth. It's spring.

Arthur approaches him when he arrives, almost shy, but when Alfred looks at him and the rabbit glances away he finally manages to say, “I... I need your help again...”

At first the fox has no idea what that means.

Arthur isn't even all that hesitant about pulling his shorts down enough to reveal the raw red of his flushed penis.

Alfred's heart thumps heavy in his chest suddenly and it feels as though the air's been kicked out of him.

“... Oh.” He swallows, nods, and then it dawns on him that Arthur thinks that this is how things are supposed to be now. He thinks Alfred is supposed to help him. And that bolsters the fox a little. Suddenly he smiles, confident and eager. “Alright then.”

He pushes the rabbit back onto the bed and Arthur is less certain this time about what he's going to do, but Alfred takes some glee in yanking his shorts off and palming his erection before running the flat of his tongue along it.

Arthur makes a strangled noise like he's just stepped in mud.

Alfred laps it a few times before suckling it. It's so small that it's effortless to mouth the darn thing, but Arthur goes completely nuts, twisting and arching and moaning as though he's never felt anything more pleasurable in his entire life, which he probably hasn't.

He comes after less than a minute, filling the fox's mouth with bitter seed.

Alfred parts his lips, half sticking out his tongue to show the breathless rabbit before swallowing it. He gives Arthur a prideful grin. “Do you feel better now?”

Arthur nods, almost enthusiastically. “That was--...” He takes a breath. “That was really... _good_. Very good.” He's so lost that he can barely string words together. “Thank you.”

It's enough to boost Alfred's ego, certainly.

The fox pets his hair and rubs at where Arthur's ear meets his head, the rabbit tilting into the touch, this too causing him pleasure.

“I'm glad. I'll help you whenever you need it, okay?”

Arthur looks at him, taking this in, and nods. “Okay.”

The rabbit's eyes are sated and dark now. But there's an awed sort of look about him—almost loving—and Alfred can't help but feel happy that this belongs to only him.

 

 

 

No one can know.

Alfred isn't sure why, but suddenly he doesn't want the forest to understand the _true_ extent of his relationship with Arthur. He doesn't want them to realize what he does to him when they're alone. He doesn't want them to interfere.

Things spiral out of control.

The handjobs and blowjobs become commonplace, but one day he arrives home to find Arthur completely nude. It's the height of the season and he's red-faced and flushed. He's not in heat like some of the other animals but he has urges and he knows that Alfred can help him—Alfred _always_ helps him.

But now... now Alfred realizes that he can help himself as well.

Arthur doesn't know any better. He's naked and he thinks he understands sex, but he moves and bends and Alfred can't help but to admire the firm curve of his ass, atop which a cute, fluffy tail is settled.

He touches it—the tail—and Arthur arches and whines. He massages it and it makes the rabbit shudder. Alfred's never felt like he was the type to do something like this, but in the heat of the moment he finds his tongue lapping at Arthur's hole, wetting it, sometimes nipping at sensitive skin. Arthur keens, too wound up to comment on the absurdity of it.

It swallows up one finger, then two. It's almost fascinating watching the circular muscle struggle to accommodate them. But all the while Arthur's lost to it—he doesn't care. It feels good. What Alfred is doing feels good. Stretching him and scissoring him and toying with him as though he were a female rather than a male. This isn't how it works. He's supposed to work up his future mate, not some horny little bunny. But it's incredible; he can't stop.

Alfred tries to put himself inside of Arthur, aroused as he is now, but the bunny squalls in pain and he stops because no matter how one looks at it that's not very sexy at all.

Arthur seems to understand that he was trying to achieve his own orgasm, however, because the rabbit looks at him, tearful and apologetic. “I- I...”

Before he can wave the whole thing off Arthur does something he doesn't expect, which he supposes is the norm these days.

He takes Alfred's dick into his smaller mouth and the fox can tell it's a struggle. He knows well enough not to use teeth, so the fox starts to relax. It feels good—it really, really does. He's not sure what to think.

The whole thing's clumsy but Arthur sucks him off, bobbing his head, lips stretched around his length as though just the girth is difficult for him. He's hot inside—hot and wet and tight, just like his ass probably is, and the fox is struck by just how good it feels. It shouldn't feel good—it's a rabbit—but it does.

He comes and Arthur has no idea how to handle it. The rabbit nearly chokes on semen and his cock nearly gets stuck in the poor thing's mouth when the base starts to knot. But then he's rewarded with a lovely sight—the dark-eyed darling peering up at him, awaiting a reaction, panting as fluids drip down his chin from rose red lips.

For the first time, Alfred kisses him.

 

 

 

It's subtle at first, but his world soon starts to narrow.

Many things he used to find important simply aren't anymore. He no longer enjoys taunting the crows or badgering the gophers. He no longer feels the need to take long walks in order to keep an eye on the developments around him—to keep tabs on those who might die soon or those who might be shuffling around young. None of it matters.

 _Arthur_ matters.

“Please-- please fuck me. Alfred, _please_.”

The rabbit's begging.

Alfred isn't sure how this happened or why Arthur's so wound up, but the rat he killed is forgotten on the floor as he approaches the bed. Arthur's sprawled out on top of the furs, naked, flushed red from his cheeks to his cock, legs crooked so that he can finger himself. He whines and shudders and looks up at him, pleading with his eyes.

Without thinking, Alfred strips down. He's hungry and thirsty and dirty from running around all day, but none of that matters. He catches the rabbit's lips in a kiss and it turns feverish and fierce and wild. He's devouring him like this—not physically, but metaphorically. It feels as wrong as it feels right, but more than that it feels _good_.

Arthur opens up to him and it's wonderful.

It takes a little bit of effort, some prodding and adjusting, but this time Alfred actually manages to get his cock inside the rabbit's tight little ass. It helps that Arthur was naughty and loosened himself some while he was gone. It helps that no matter how the slimmer male's body squeezes around him he tells Alfred to keep going.

They have sex.

It's like nothing Alfred's ever experienced before.

Arthur's on his hands and knees, cushioned by down and fur, crying out to soil walls as he fucks him. At first Alfred goes slow, but he soon enough learns that every motion—rough or soft—extracts from Arthur the same reaction: pure, unbridled pleasure.

The rabbit cries and moans, mindless, breathless, shameless, his soft little tail straight up against his back and ears swinging as he jerks back into him. Alfred's bent over his back, clawed fingers gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. It doesn't matter that Arthur's not a vixen at this point. Alfred doesn't care. _He's his_. He's his and he's amazing. His mouth and his ass and his big eyes and his slim waist—he's perfect. And it's disgusting—disgraceful—what they're doing. A fox fucking a rabbit is unnatural.

Alfred doesn't care.

It's a frenzy of sound and feeling, the slap of sweaty skin against sweaty skin, panting, and groans. Alfred comes and almost knots him but has a mind enough not to, instead letting the bulge settle against the outside as he releases into him. He's more aroused this time and his body knows that this is sex so he keeps coming and coming for some time, until semen's dripping down Arthur's ass.

It's a waste, he thinks, so Alfred licks him clean.

And then he takes care of his cute little rabbit— _his_ \--and brings him to orgasm. It only takes a few jerks of his hand and a swipe of his tongue. Arthur ejaculates onto his own stomach and Alfred laps that up too.

Maybe he's sick.

Maybe he's twisted.

It all settles in his mind, this. It's comfortable. He's happy.

They fall asleep a tangle of limbs, heavy with the smell of sex.

Arthur is his.

 

 

 

It's inevitable that Alfred begins to smell like Arthur, but Francis is the first to comment on it.

“I see you've been having fun with your little rabbit.” The cat says, looking at him, eyes interested in this tender piece of gossip. Alfred has no idea if he's the first to notice or simply the first to say anything about it.

“What's your point?” Alfred shoots back, defensive, glaring.

Francis puts his hands up. “Now, now. No harm meant. I simply... had an offer for you. I see that perhaps you might no longer be interested...”

“Offer?” Alfred repeats.

“Indeed.” Francis nods. “I know of a nice fox looking for a mate. I thought I would refer you to her.”

Alfred scowls. “Not interested.”

“Not at all? Not even in the slightest?” Francis says, cocking his head with a smile. “You realize that a rabbit is not a mate. You may take her on and still keep your pet.”

“I said I'm not interested.” Alfred repeats, this time giving Francis a stern look. He's not sure why but the idea of a female fox simply ticks him off. He doesn't want a vixen. He doesn't want anyone who might interfere. He just wants Arthur, that's all. Maybe next spring will be different, but for now he's content with what he has.

Francis is quiet for a moment before he nods. “Very well, friend. I will tell her to take her search elsewhere.”

The conversation soon peters out and they part ways.

 

 

 

Spring comes to an end and yet Arthur's behavior never calms.

He knows that male rabbits don't go into heat, but he'd assumed that the season had had some kind of effect on him. Or maybe it's simply his age.

Yet each day Arthur's needy and begging or, if not each day, every other day or every third.

But the rabbit seems unable to go without sex for very long.

Alfred experiments a little with the timing, sometimes feigning fatigue when he gets home and leaving Arthur to take care of himself. The rabbit whines for a bit before settling and Alfred listens as he jerks himself off, ears twitching to pick up every little noise. The rabbit always makes the same, cute little noise when he comes. Then, like clockwork, he curls up as close as he can manage to Alfred and sleeps.

Life is perfect, Alfred thinks.

Arthur keeps growing.

Soon enough he isn't a young bunny experiencing his first spring but instead a young bunny experiencing his first autumn. He's a little more stubborn, a little more mouthy, and there's a gleam in his eye that speaks of a level of maturity that Alfred prefers to ignore. He's still small and slim and cute, so nothing else matters. He's still Alfred's little rabbit.

Things are calm as the leaves change color and fall. Things are peaceful. Arthur learns how to make teas and medicines from the local herbs. Arthur keeps himself busy. He reads books and daydreams and sleeps, but he never leaves the den. He never even tries to. And Alfred doesn't bother to tell him that he can.

“Drink this.”

Alfred blinks up at him from where he's already curled into bed, prepared to sleep even as Arthur stays up consumed with his work. He frowns. “I'm not thirsty.”

Arthur frowns too. “Drink it. I made it.”

Sighing, Alfred sits up. This isn't the last time he's been asked to drink Arthur's teas and this will, by no means, be the last. “Fine.”

He downs it and hands the cup back. Much like Arthur's cooking, the vegetation and plant matter sit ill in Alfred's stomach. He's long gotten used to this particular kind of indigestion.

“Happy now?” He asks Arthur, put out.

The rabbit nods, giving him the go ahead to go to sleep, which he does.

This continues for several nights in a row.

“Drink this.”

“Again?” Alfred asks, skeptical. He's never asked his opinions on the teas, only simply told to drink while Arthur watches him. “You know drinking this much before bed always makes me have to get up in the night to piss, right?”

The rabbit rolls his eyes. “Just drink it. It's important.” He gives pouts a little. “Please?”

“Fine, fine...” Alfred concedes, mostly because he doesn't really mind all that much.

It almost starts to become a routine. Every night Arthur gives him a cup full of hot brew and every night he drinks it after some griping. It never gives him food poisoning, so he doesn't see a real reason to refuse. After a while he figures it's some kind of medicinal thing, like vitamins and the like. Arthur is always chiding him for a diet of meat, after all.

Then, one morning, he wakes up to find himself sprawled out on the floor of his den, naked but overheated, his head spinning. He tries to move at first, a groan on his lips, but his hands are bound. After a few dazed seconds he finds his ankles are too. Everything's shifting and in out of focus—the room's moving—and he can't keep track of it all. His skin's hot and dripping with sweat and his dick's red and stiff and alert.

Arthur's image swims into view.

“Wha—...” He manages, his tongue feeling heavy and dumb and unresponsive.

The rabbit shushes him as he leans down and runs his fingers along Alfred's cheek. They feel cool against his heated skin and he leans into them. “I'm going to make you feel good.” Arthur tells him.

Alfred isn't sure what that means but something's shoved into his mouth and he swallows it. It leaves a bitter, unpleasant aftertaste.

Arthur settles in next to him, running small hands along his chest and tweaking his nipple. The feeling of it all sends little jolts of pleasure through him. “How does it feel, Mr. Fox?”

The nickname seems a little odd to Alfred, but his head lolls and he kind of nods a little. “Mm... Good...”

The rabbit smiles at that. “I'm glad.” He says. “I'm going to make you feel really, _really_  good.”

None of this makes much sense, but Alfred feels himself relax. Then Arthur grabs his cock and a strangled howl is on his lips as the oversensitive skin is stroked and pumped. He tries to writhe out of the rabbit's hand but he can't. It feels so good it almost hurts and tears bead in his eyes.

Arthur squirms into the space between his legs and takes his dick into his mouth, wetting it, and the sensation is enough that his back arches and his toes curl. He can hardly control the noises that he exhales now, a waterfall of moans and whines. His cute little rabbit sucks him off with all the skill he's acquired this past year or so. And then he stops.

Alfred watches, dazed, as Arthur straddles him and inserts the fox's cock into his already slicked and stretched ass, sinking down and down and down until the fox is fully sheathed. And then he rides him, bucking and moaning. Alfred loses himself. All he can do is feel—he hardly knows what's going on beyond that.

The sex they have is strange and feral. Arthur's watching him with almost predatory eyes and Alfred's restrained with twine and thick stakes driven into the hard-packed earth of his den. He's drugged, he realizes very faraway in his mind. That's why his saliva drips down from his mouth unchecked and his body sings at Arthur's every little action. But he can hardly act on that knowledge. He can barely remember to keep breathing.

Arthur is merciless and the nails of one hand dig into Alfred's thigh as he starts to jerk himself off right then and there, while riding him. The sight and the feeling of it all is too much. Alfred comes.

His cute little rabbit sinks down nice and tight against him, taking in the knot. There's pain on his face but he only jerks himself off more vigorously—determined to orgasm now—and then he does, right all over Alfred's stomach.

The results of this are unknown to the fox, as he passes out.

 

 

 

When he wakes again, Alfred's in bed, but he's not entirely sure how he got there.

Arthur is curled up next to him, so he shakes him awake. The rabbit rouses sluggishly at first before peering up at him with sleepy annoyance. “Mm... What is it?”

“What the _hell_ was that?” Alfred asks, indignant. He's not even sure if it was real but he's sore and his head is pounding and he assumes that it must have been.

That's enough to get the rabbit's attention and Arthur sits up a little, peering at him in the low light. And then he smirks. “What was what?” He asks, coy.

Alfred just scowls. “You _know_   what.” He hisses, eyes narrowed.

The rabbit just smiles at him. “Oh you mean: you, spread out and crying underneath me? Begging to let you fuck me? Saying whatever I want and doing whatever I want as I torture you with pleasure until you can't take it anymore?” With every word he shifts a little until he's hovering over Alfred, a hand on either side of the fox's shoulders.

Of all the answers Alfred had expected, he hadn't expected that one. His ears are swept back as he stares at his bed mate, unsure of how to react.

Arthur flicks his nose and Alfred recoils. “I've been in control of our relationship since you lied to me about the nature of spring. For a fox, you're not very clever.”

“I— you—,” Alfred flounders, unable to conjure words.

Arthur curls up against his side and looks up at him with large, green eyes. “Can we just go to sleep together?” He says in a soft, pleading voice. “I just want to go to sleep. I'm tired.”

Alfred stares at him, gaping slightly. He doesn't know what to say. Those soft eyes peer at him innocently, hiding everything from moments ago behind a gentle expression.

 _'I'm a fox.'_ He silently bemoans as he shifts to lie down, ears dipping in shame as he complies. _'And I'm wrapped around this rabbit's little finger...'_

 

End

 

 

 

 

Bonus

 

“It kind of hurts.” Alfred complains, tugging at the rope as Arthur loops it around his wrists. He's sat up on some furs, peering at the rabbit's handiwork as he binds him.

“Yes, that's sort of rather the point. It _should_ hurt if you tug, so don't tug.” Arthur scolds.

Alfred's tail sways as he rolls his eyes. “That's stup—,” the word dies in his mouth as the rabbit gags him with a strip of cloth. Alfred glowers at him, annoyed, but Arthur simply pats his head.

“Good boys are quiet.” The rabbit informs him.

The fox mumbles something from behind the gag so Arthur retrieves a strip or freshly primed leather from a box in the corner. Alfred eyes him.

The rabbit smiles innocent and twists the leather in his hands, getting a feel for it. “Good boys,” he repeats, “are _quiet_.”

Alfred's ears flatten slightly as he glances away, but to Arthur's delight he says nothing.

He's rewarded accordingly.


End file.
